


After

by Zatnikatel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatnikatel/pseuds/Zatnikatel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little something that was buried over at my Tumblr...</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

One week after they find the spell that banishes the demon hordes back to Hell and locks the gates behind them in perpetuity, they get Cas’s grace back. He unseals Heaven only to rip the light out of himself and shut it all down again once his kin have returned there.

A month after that, Sam offers to paint Jody Mills’s house for her. It turns into a lunchtime bagel, long Saturday afternoons, Sunday mornings and whole weekends, turns into a shaggy dog, and a new king-sized bed over at her place. It turns into a six-month anniversary, a stammered out _how-about-what-if-we-would-you?_ , turns into a ring, a marriage license, and vows in front of the local minister, while Dean blinks through the sting in his eyes.

The bunker is quiet then, but there are books to read, and now his work is done Dean finds the wanderlust and the pull of the open road are fading, replaced by a thirst to know all there is to know, a thirst he had always buried deep down under the need to save everyone. He hovers in the doorway to the library one night, watches Cas as his friend reads after an afternoon of working the yard behind the bunker. Cas’s knees are pulled up, and his feet, in the ridiculous striped slouch socks Jody knitted for him, are worrying at each other as he concentrates. He’s sucking in his top lip, frowning and narrowing his eyes one second, tenting his brows in what looks like amazement the next. 

Dean doesn’t say anything, drifts over and sits down next to Cas as surreptitiously as he can. There is a stack of books on the end table, and he reaches forward a little self-consciously, snags one off of the top. It’s not one from the Men of Letters collection, it’s one of the piles of assorted hardbacks Cas has been bringing back from the local Goodwill store. _The Princes in the Tower_ , Dean notes, and he opens it up, starts to read about kings, queens and noblemen, economic chaos, social unrest, violence, profiteering, corruption, treason, plots and counterplots. When he finishes reading and looks at his wristwatch, it’s three in the morning, and in the next second he becomes aware of a weight at his side: Cas, slumped on Dean’s shoulder like he has every right to be there, lashes a thick black crescent on his cheeks as he slumbers, his hand resting on Dean’s thigh.

And so it becomes a _thing_ for Dean. There are few words involved in it, just the habit of shuffling in there as casually as he can, taking the spot next to Cas, and reaching for the next volume, greedily absorbing the words: literature, art, history, politics, _knowledge_. And every night, Dean snaps out of his trance in the small hours and lets himself keel sideways onto the couch cushions, Cas folding down there with him. Sometimes Cas doesn’t stir, sometimes he grunts in his sleep and burrows his head into Dean’s chest, sometimes he blinks half-awake and yawns out a barely coherent curse. When that happens, Dean finds it’s easy to rub circles on his friend’s back as his breathing goes deep and even again, easy to soothe out a _shhhh_ into the tuft of hair tickling his chin, easy to brush his lips across Cas’s temple.

On the night when Cas pulls a strained groan from Dean as he shifts to get comfortable, Cas’s whole frame goes taut and his eyes snap open on a sharp, sucked-in breath. His face is right there, just inches from Dean’s, his stubble coarse on Dean’s neck, and his expression goes from surprised to curious. And Dean finds it’s easier than he ever thought it would be to swallow and lick his lips, to say _yes_ and whisper his friend’s name, to flex his hips up and grind his hardness into Cas, to open his mouth to the hot, wet slide of Cas’s tongue, to tug clothing off and fling it away from them as they move on and in each other, desperate to touch, and taste, and feel everything there is in this.

Dean teaches Cas to drive, teaches him how to check and flush the coolant, the brake and transmission fluid, teaches him how to change the oil and the filters, replace the spark plugs, check the tire pressure and switch out a wheel. Cas tells Dean about the stars, about the birth of the solar system and Earth, about the tectonic forces that shaped the continents, about the volatile gases and water vapors that formed the air they breathe and the oceans, about the Cambrian explosion, about evolution, about civilization.

They sit and read every night, legs tangled; wake for frantic sex, choked-out lust and feverish promises, followed by crooned affection and lazy tenderness.

“I want to do something,” Dean murmurs one night, while Cas’s fingers trace sigils up and down his spine. “Make use of myself. But I don’t know what I’m good at, except for killing.”

Cas hums. “You’re good at teaching. Teach.”

Dean pushes up on his elbow, scowls. “I can’t teach, you need a degree.”

Cas quirks his mouth. “Then get one.”

Dean is pushing forty when he does, and he can see his brother’s grin lighting up the auditorium even though Sam and Jody are right at the back, handy for the doors in case baby Mary starts crying during the ceremony, or little Dean decides he’s had enough and throws a toddler tantrum. Cas is right there in the front row, dapper in his old G-man suit, camera flashing wildly. He pastes the pictures in a scrapbook, fills up the remaining pages when Dean gets his teacher certification, saves the last page for a photograph of the second-hand trailer Dean buys him with his first honest wage.

Dean helps his friend stencil _Cas Winchester Horticulture, Landscaping, and Lawn Service_ on the side, drives around with Cas that first weekend handing out business cards, breaking out the million-watt smile for every old lady who eyes them suspiciously. 

He massages Cas’s aching muscles in the bathtub when Cas has spent his day weed-whacking and tree-lopping, tells Cas stories about the _bullcrap shenanigans_ his class of ten-year-olds get up to, because they can be the kids he and Sam never were.

He marks homework most nights, but he always drifts over to the couch for that last half-hour of reading together.


End file.
